Semper Fi
by San Antonio Rose
Summary: Ever Faithful, the motto of the USMC. But when CPL Dean Winchester of Echo 2/1 is critically wounded in Iraq while Sam is at Stanford and John is missing, the question becomes... faithful to what? (AU, possible spoilers through 5.22)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer/backstory: Aside from the usual disclaimers, which most definitely apply, I have to confess that the premise of the story is not entirely my own idea. Back in June, TeamFreeWillAngel and I corresponded for a couple of weeks about her story "Samuel M Winchester, US Army." She had asked me to take a look at a revised and expanded version, but I haven't heard from her since early July, nor have I seen any of the revisions she made. However, some of the suggestions I'd made were still fairly fresh in my mind when I wandered over to the most recent hoodie_time Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme and found two back-to-back prompts requesting combat-injured Dean; one even suggested Dean as a Navy SEAL. Now, I don't know any SEALs; my acquaintance with current Navy personnel is limited mainly to reading bloggers like Neptunus Lex and CDR Salamander on occasion. But I do know Marines, and I also know stories like that of MAJ Chuck Ziegenfuss, a tank commander who was badly wounded in an IED attack in Iraq in 2005. So this story is the result of combining both prompts and RL experiences, mine and others'. I've used the timeline created by hells_half_acre to guide the timing (aside from the date of Sam's powers beginning to come online), along with the RL events that led to the creation of Project Valour-IT. I've also tried to find a different tack for one of the plot devices that I've seen done very well by others; I wouldn't have used it at all had the story not taken a harder-than-expected turn to the AU.

* * *

In honor of MAJ Chuck Ziegenfuss, who inspired this story; my cousin the Marine, my cousin the airman, and my other cousin who's joining the Air Force this fall; and the many other heroes in uniform who have shed blood, sweat, and tears in the Sandbox and elsewhere—this truly is the land of the free because of the brave.

* * *

Semper Fi  
by San Antonio Rose

_If the Army and the Navy  
Ever look on Heaven's scenes,  
They will find the streets are guarded  
By United States Marines.  
-Marine Hymn_

_October 31, 2005  
0800 PST_

Sam was deep into study mode, so much so that he didn't hear his phone ring until Jess smacked his leg and said, "Psst, Max! Your shoe is ringing!"

Sam laughed and picked up his cell phone, frowning a little as he saw an unfamiliar phone number with a 760 area code. "Hello?"

"Samuel Winchester?"

Sam's frown deepened. "Yes."

"Sir, this is Sgt. Seth Jackson, United States Marine Corps. I regret to inform you that your brother has been injured by an IED in Iraq."

Sam blinked again. "Dean? But—how long's he been in the Marines?"

Sgt. Jackson didn't sound at all rattled by the question. "Two years, sir. We couldn't locate your father, and you were the only other family member listed as next of kin."

"Is... will he... will he live?"

Jess sat forward at that.

"He's alive," said Sgt. Jackson, "but he's badly injured, though it looks like his internal organs are all undamaged. He's being evacuated to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center as we speak. I don't know much more than that at this time. Apparently Cpl. Winchester has quite the sense of humor, though. The medic said that he said to tell you to look after his car or he'd haunt you."

_He would, too_, Sam thought, still dazed. "When can I see him?"

"He'll be in ICU for a few days. But if you can get to Germany, you should be able to go into the room briefly when there are no tests or examinations going on. Otherwise, you'll have to wait until they ship him to Brook Army Medical Center in San Antonio."

"I'll call Mom," whispered Jess.

Sam nodded but held up a finger. "Okay. Who do I contact?"

Sgt. Jackson rattled off names and phone numbers of people in both places for him to contact for updates on Dean and for travel assistance. Sam thanked him and hung up numbly.

"Sam?" Jess prompted. "What happened?"

"Um. Hang on a sec. I need to call a couple of people—you can listen." Sam took a deep breath and let it out again, then turned on the speakerphone and dialed one of the few numbers he'd had memorized long before he came to Stanford.

"Hello?" said a gruff voice on the other end.

"Hey, Bobby. It's Sam Winchester."

"Sam!" Bobby sounded pleasantly surprised. "How are you, son?"

"I'm fine, thanks... but Dean's not."

"What's that idjit done now?"

"IED attack. In Iraq. And apparently Dad's disappeared. Bobby, I didn't even know Dean was in the Marines..."

Jess grabbed her laptop and started typing.

"Slow down, Sam," said Bobby. "They call you 'cause they can't find John?"

"Yes, sir. They're taking Dean to Germany, and then when he's stable, they'll send him to San Antonio."

"All right. I ain't spoken to your dad for about six months, and from what I hear, he ain't on good terms with very many other hunters at the moment, either. But I'll call Jim and Caleb, and we'll see if we can't track him down, let him know what's happened. Is there anything you need? There's a Fisher House for both hospitals where you can stay for free, but if there's anything else—airfare, bus fare..."

Jess showed him the laptop screen with a travel site showing a flight for two from LAX to Cologne and mouthed, _We've got this_.

"Thanks," Sam said to both of them. "I'll let you know once I talk it over with my girlfriend."

Jess smiled and went back to typing.

Sam picked up the phone then and turned off the speakerphone; Jess didn't need to hear what Bobby was about to say next. "So when did Dean join the Marines?"

Bobby sighed. "Honestly, Sam, I don't know... but I can make a good guess. Wasn't long after your daddy chased him out of Palo Alto that last time that he sent Dean on a solo hunt, rumors of a poltergeist up in Connecticut. Only it turned out to be a daeva bein' controlled by a witch. Dean realized it was a two-man job, called Caleb for backup, still nearly got himself killed. Wasn't actually injured, and it wasn't his fault, but Caleb says it was way too close for comfort. John showed up and yelled at him for bein' an idjit, and Dean finally yelled back—'If you're gonna keep treatin' me like a damn Marine, maybe I oughta actually be one.' Couple days later he showed up here, left the Impala under a tarp, said he had somethin' to do overseas and he'd be back for it in a few years." Sam could almost hear Bobby shake his head. "Shoulda figured he meant he'd enlisted."

"I wish he'd told me."

"Probably didn't want you worryin' about him. You know how he is."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. I know."

"Well, listen, I'll let you go. Keep me updated, you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you need anything, anything at all, you give me a call."

"Yes, sir."

"Take care of yourself, son."

"Thanks, Bobby. Bye."

Jess was IMing with her mom but looked over at Sam as he hung up the phone. "Who's Bobby?"

"Huh? Oh... old friend of the family. Said he'd call the other people I was gonna call. What's your mom say?"

"They'll pay for the plane tickets to Germany and back to San Antonio. No problem." But Jess obviously wasn't going to be diverted from the few odd things she'd heard in Sam's conversation with Bobby. "What does your dad hunt at this time of year? It's not deer season yet."

Sam hesitated. He hadn't told her the truth yet, and he still didn't want to, but if Dean was going to be out of his head on painkillers, there was no telling what he might say...

"Sam?"

"There's really no telling," Sam replied. "But... he's not after game. Look, Jess... this is probably going to sound crazy, and I've never told you about it because I didn't want to lose you, but if you change your mind about me..."

Jess frowned. "He's not in the mob, is he?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "No. Nothing like that."

"So tell me."

He told her everything.

She didn't flinch or call him crazy, just nodded slowly. Then she said, "Sam, do... do you think maybe something like that happened to Brady?"

Sam blinked. "I... hadn't thought of it, but it's possible. Why?"

"Sometimes, the way he smiles at me... it gives me the creeps. And sometimes his eyes look _black_, like alien eyes. I know he's normally a pretty good guy, and I keep telling myself I'm getting paranoid from all the stress, but..."

A chill ran down Sam's spine. "We can be paranoid together, then, 'cause that... yeah. I don't know what could cause that, but it definitely sounds supernatural." He didn't want to believe anything was wrong with Brady, but he had changed pretty radically in the middle of sophomore year, and Sam _really_ didn't think Jess would make up something like that.

Jess bit her lip and then nodded once decisively. "Okay, then. You pack and I'll call the dean. We've got a plane to catch."

"I knew there was a reason I loved you," Sam replied and kissed her.

* * *

While Jess drove them down to LAX, Sam called the chaplain's office at Landstuhl and requested a referral to the Fisher House. Then the chaplain forwarded him to someone who gave him an update on Dean's condition (critical but stable), and Sam took notes about Dean's various wounds so he could repeat it all to Bobby.

Burns and shrapnel wounds on both arms and legs. Right leg and left arm badly broken. Traumatic brain injury (concussion, Jess explained). Nerve damage in his hands for sure, possibly elsewhere; he'd lost a couple of fingers, might lose his whole left hand. Hearing loss, would need a skin graft to repair his eardrums. They'd have to watch for infection very carefully because of the condition of the room where the bomb had gone off.

Dean's squad had been clearing a house after a firefight, a house where several hostages had been held and others had been tortured and killed, and the place was filthy (though Sam could easily imagine it looking like one of the more disgusting Wendigo lairs they'd cleared back in the day). Dean had heard a noise from one of the back rooms and warned the other members of his platoon to stay back while he checked the room, even when there turned out to be a terrorist's body visible from the doorway. "Never know," Dean had said. "Guy could be playin' possum."

He was.

No one else was injured, and everyone said it was a miracle that Dean survived. One guy even swore he'd seen an angel standing between Dean and the bomber. Sam thought that was likely enough to be true.

Bobby was noncommittal. "Ain't too much lore on angels," he said, "less'n you count writers like Pseudo-Dionysius. Don't know a hunter who's ever run into one. Don't mean they don't exist, though."

"That's true," Sam replied. "Any luck on finding Dad?"

"It's only been two hours, Sam."

"Sorry."

"Look, I know you're worried. Just keep Jim and me posted, and we'll make sure your daddy catches up to you wherever you are when we find him."

"Will do. Oh, and Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I told Jess about... hunting... and she thinks maybe something's up with one of our friends. His name's Brady." He repeated what she'd told him.

"I'll look into it," Bobby promised.

Just then Sam heard the Call Waiting beep and said a hurried farewell to Bobby before switching lines. It was the Landstuhl chaplain, calling back to inform him that Dean had arrived and that the Fisher House was full up.

"Can I speak to Dean?" Sam asked.

"I'm afraid not," the chaplain replied. "He's still getting settled. But one of our Soldiers' Angels volunteers will be in to see him shortly, and we'll be sure to let him know both that you called and that you're on your way."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Problem?" Jess asked as Sam hung up his phone with a sigh.

"Yeah. Looks like we're gonna have to find a hotel after all. Which probably means having to lie and say we're married."

Jess shrugged. "Doesn't have to be a lie."

Sam looked at her wide-eyed. "You mean... y-you will? I mean, will you?"

"Of course, silly."

It took every ounce of self-restraint Sam possessed not to kiss her senseless then and there, and the only reason he managed it was that traffic was terrible and their getting in a wreck wouldn't help Dean.

* * *

Dean hurt. That was all there was to it.

The fentanyl had taken the edge off—way off. He wasn't hurting so badly he couldn't speak anymore. But painkillers had always made him kind of loopy, so he couldn't really form too many coherent thoughts at the moment. And the pain was still there. It just... felt more like he'd taken a header into a tombstone rather than leaving significant portions of himself in a foreign country. Rang his bell pretty good, too, which wasn't helping him think straight.

He hated hospitals. He wanted to go home. Only... where was home, now? Pendleton? Palo Alto? Wherever the hell Dad had gone off to? Dammit, he'd fought to stay with Echo 2/1 and go back to Iraq just so he wouldn't have to think about these things...

What had Dad gotten a Purple Heart for, anyway? He never talked about 'Nam if he could help it.

Where was Dad? Why wasn't he here yet?

... Where was here again?

"Dean."

Germany. Right. Trenchcoat Guy. Casper or Columbo or something. Angel. Soldiers' Angels. Nice people. Pretty quilt in that backpack. Right size and everything. Hadn't had a quilt of his own since... since... well, there was that one at Bobby's...

"Dean."

Dean finally met Trenchcoat Guy's crazy blue eyes. "Wha?"

"Sam will be here in a few moments."

"Sammy?" Ought to hide Alec—embarrassing, big tough Marine with a teddy bear... but damn, it hurt to move...

"Yes, Dean. Sam's coming. I'm leaving now, but I'll try to stop by again later."

"'Kay. Uh... C-Cas?"

Trenchcoat Guy almost smiled. "Yes?"

"I can call you Cas?"

"Yes."

"'Kay. Thanks, Cas. 'Preciate it."

And that did make T—_Cas_ smile. "You're welcome."

Dean let himself drift for a while once Cas left, contemplating the pretty quilt that the nurse had kindly covered him with. Red, white, and blue, it was, all kinds of patriotic fabrics, and the nurse had said the pattern was... Texas Star? Something like that, anyway. And he wondered idly if sewing might not be good therapy for his hands once he got his cast off—maybe not quilting, but he'd had to mend his and Sammy's clothes often enough when they were kids...

"Dean?"

Dean looked up—and there he was, large as... _larger than_ life, like a worried overgrown puppy, and with a blonde in tow, no less. And Dean's breath caught. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's me. And this is Jess... my wife."

"W-wife? Wait, when did this happen?"

"Yesterday. I was gonna propose soon anyway, but... we kinda figured..." Sam trailed off, a little embarrassed.

Dean's eyes slid over to Jess. "Honey, you are way out of my brother's league."

She giggled and held Sam's hand a little tighter... and Dean smiled, 'cause that was good. He deserved somebody like that.

Whatever that meant. Damn fentanyl.

Sam sat down beside Dean's bed. "So, um... how are you feeling?"

Dean sighed. "Like I been gored by a minotaur, dude."

Sam snorted and shook his head. "Doctor says the gut's one of the only places you _didn't_ get hurt."

"Yeah? Lucky me."

"Dean... why didn't you tell me you'd enlisted? It's not _that_ far from Palo Alto to Camp Pendleton."

"If I had called, would you have answered?"

Sam ducked his head.

"Aw, hell, Sammy, I don't... I can't remember now. 'M sorry."

Sam huffed. "Yeah. Me, too."

And then it dawned on him. "Sam... why'd they call you? Where's Dad?"

Somehow, Sam managed to look even more worried. "Nobody knows. Bobby and Pastor Jim are tryin' to track him down, let him know what happened. Bobby said he thinks maybe Dad went after a vengeful spirit in this town called Jericho, not too far from Stanford, but... you know what Dad's like when he doesn't want to be found."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Un-unfortunately."

His next blink evidently lasted a little too long, because Sam very gently patted his shoulder. "We need to go get checked into the hotel, dude. But we'll be back later, I promise."

"'Kay. Glad you're here."

Sam started to say something else, but Dean was asleep before he could say it.

* * *

The Winchesters had once driven coast to coast in two days when Sam was little, and Sam hadn't thought anything of getting used to a four-hour time difference in that amount of time. That experience was absolutely no preparation for adjusting to a nine-hour time difference in the course of an eleven-hour flight. And though Jess had slept on the plane, Sam had woken with a start at midnight PST, not from the headache-inducing nightmare of Jess' death that had been plaguing him for months, but from the distinct sense that something, some enemy, was looking for him. That sense had stuck with him all the way to the hospital, disappeared briefly while they were in Dean's room, and returned with a vengeance as soon as they stepped outside.

"You okay, Sam?" Jess asked.

Sam decided to be honest. "I dunno. I've got this weird feeling... might just be jet lag, but I'm not sure."

"You look a little green. Maybe we should find an Aldi and pick up a few snacks on our way to the hotel. We should get a phone card, too—I don't think my cell plan covers Europe."

Sam agreed, and Jess didn't comment when he picked up a box of salt as well.

Once they were in their room, Sam instructed her to lay salt lines while he called Bobby. Unfortunately, Bobby's number went straight to voice mail, where the older hunter had left Sam instructions to call another number for some important news. Sam took down the number, cursed under his breath during the beep, and said, "Hey, Bobby, it's Sam. We're here. I'll call back later." He then hung up and tried the second number Bobby had given him.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," drawled the male voice that answered.

"Is this Ash?"

"The one and only. You Sam Winchester?"

Sam cleared his throat in surprise. "Uh, yeah. Bobby told me to call. Has he found my dad?"

"Negatory, but you got bigger problems, my friend. Your pal Brady hopped a red-eye from LAX to Frankfurt about two hours ago."

"Brady? Why?"

"Bobby says he's possessed. And if the demon's been hidin' in plain sight as long as Bobby thinks it has, you've got real trouble."

Sam swore. One of the few monsters his father had never let him or Dean face was a demon; he knew some of the ways to defend against them, but Dean was a sitting duck.

"What's your email address?" Ash asked. "I can email you some information. Not a _lot_ you can do in a military hospital, but there are some things you can get away with even there."

Sam sighed and gave it to him.

* * *

Trenchcoat Guy—Cas—was back. Dean thought he remembered Sam and Jess coming by again before it got too late, and he thought Jess pinned something to the back of his quilt before she tucked it in around him as tight as it would go, though he'd insisted on keeping his left arm out on top of the covers because the cast was so bulky. But here it was the middle of the night, and even with all the nurses coming in and out, Cas was still hanging around. Dean wished he felt up to finding out more about the guy, but all he ever did was watch Dean sleep. Never talked much. Never blinked much, for that matter.

Dean thought he really ought to be creeped out by Cas, but he was too doped up to care.

All of a sudden, Cas looked up like he heard something in the hall and left the room. Dean couldn't see where he went. But he wasn't alone for long; a blond guy who looked to be about Sammy's age, all tan and white teeth and condescension, walked in like he owned the place. Wasn't in uniform. Wasn't in a lab coat.

It was the _middle of the night_, and he didn't know this guy from Adam. Something was very, very wrong. And of course Dean didn't have a sidearm.

"Well, well," Blondie smirked, oozing up to the bed. "Lookee what I found. Dean Winchester, alive and unwell. Guess that explains why Sammy didn't show up at the Halloween party. Bet you don't even know what day it is, do you?"

Dean wasn't going to give this dude the satisfaction of a reply.

"'Course, being in a different time zone means the day's arrived a little sooner than you might have expected, and I really should be doing this about twenty hours from now, but technicalities aside—here in Germany, it's _November 2_, Deano."

_Not good not good not good_...

"I was supposed to toast his little Jessica, but it seems the kid wised up somewhere along the way. I couldn't get into his room. But I sure got into this one," Blondie leered and reached for a corner of the quilt.

But before Dean could cry out or reach the call button, Cas came back to the doorway and yelled, "HEY!"

Blondie turned. Cas did something Dean couldn't see. Blondie snarled something unintelligible and made some gesture of his own in Dean's direction. Cas snarled back.

And suddenly Blondie was vomiting black smoke. But at the same time, something hit Dean's left hand, _through_ the cast, that sent white hot pain up his arm despite the painkillers, and Dean screamed. By the time the nurse got there, Cas was gone, Blondie was collapsed on the floor, and Dean was almost blinded by the burning agony in his hand. The nurse had to put him all the way under to give him any relief at all.

When he started to wake up again, he heard the doctor talking to someone:

"... lucky he screamed when he did, or we might not have been able to save his arm at all. As it is, I have no idea how the infection got started, but it was spreading like wildfire, far too quickly for antibiotics to have any effect."

"And you had to take the whole hand?" That was Sammy.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester."

A sniffle... must be Jess.

"What about the man you found in here?"

"He was already dead when security arrived. Looked like his heart had been damaged by drug use and finally just gave out on him."

Dean opened his eyes a crack, and Sam saw him right away and grabbed his right hand. "Dean?"

Dean swallowed once, twice, looked at Jess, who was crying. Swallowed again. He didn't want to look... and yet he needed to see for himself...

"Dean?" Sam said again. "How much did you hear?"

Dean swallowed again, not sure he could talk, and slowly looked down at his left arm. Without a hand.

He wasn't sure if the sob that followed came from Jess or from him.

* * *

"It was a curse," Dean said later, once Jess had gotten a local SIM card for Sam's phone that would let them call Bobby direct and use the speakerphone. His speech was still kind of slurred from all the trauma and the painkillers, and Sam didn't want him to have to tell the story twice. "Had to be. Guy was goin' on about it bein' the day Mom died and how he was s'posed to kill Jess but couldn't get in the room, an' then he tried to pull off m'quilt."

Sam could almost hear Bobby frown. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"We pinned a devil's trap to the back," Sam explained. "Ash's idea."

"But Cas stopped 'im," Dean continued. "'M kinda fuzzy on what happened, but I think he exorcised the guy. Black smoke came out of 'im, I 'member that much. And somethin' hit my hand."

"Who's Cas?" Jess asked.

"Guy, 's around," Dean replied vaguely, clearly fading. "Blue eyes, black hair. Trenchcoat. Dunno."

"Get some rest, Dean," Bobby said gently. "Sam, take me off speaker."

"Yes, sir."

Dean was already half asleep by the time Sam got the phone up to his ear. Jess fussed over him quietly, and Sam went out into the hall.

"So what do you think?"

"We dodged a bullet, is what I think. Ain't much more you can do now 'cept be careful, not leave Jess alone unless she's behind salt lines. Looks like there've been some nasty omens around Palo Alto the last couple of days; could be that demon and whoever it was workin' for. Black eyes, it's probably workin' for someone."

Sam sighed. "Bobby... I've been having this nightmare since about mid-summer. It's like what Dean's told me about Mom's death, only it isn't Mom on the ceiling, it's Jess."

"That's bad."

"But last night the dream changed, and... I think I saw what happened to Dean, only in the dream he actually died."

"You ever get a headache with these dreams?"

"Yeah. Like, migraine."

Bobby made a thoughtful noise. "I dunno what to tell you, Sam. I've heard of psychics who get headaches like that; I've known psychics who don't."

_Not that it helps much either way._ "Any luck tracing Dad?"

"Yeah, all bad. I think he went flyin' off to Palo Alto to look into these omens, maybe catch the thing that killed your mom. But if it was Brady, he was too late. I've got Ash workin' on a few other possible traces, though."

"Okay. Thanks."

"When do they plan to send Dean back to the States?"

"Maybe Friday. He'll probably be at BAMC for a month or two; no tellin' how long after that the physical therapy's gonna take."

"You gonna stay with him?"

"Yeah. Jess started looking at apartments yesterday."

"What are you gonna do about school, son? You're awful close to graduatin'. Be a shame to just quit now."

"We need to talk to the dean, but... we're thinkin' we can take the spring off and then finish our coursework at UTSA, maybe graduate next December if all the credits transfer. But unless Dad's willing to give up the hunt for whatever killed Mom for a while, we're all Dean has. He needs us. School can wait."

"You think he'll try to fight the medical discharge? Lot of amputees do these days, and all Dean's lost is a hand."

"I dunno. Depends most on the nerve damage, I guess. The bones and the burns will heal okay, but the nerves... it's too soon to tell. And if he can't go back to Iraq, that probably means he can't hunt anymore, either."

"Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Bobby said with what was probably a shrug. "Well, Sam, I'll let you go; don't want to run your phone bill too high. You be careful, though, y'hear?"

"I hear you, Bobby."

"All right. Take care, son."

As Sam slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned to go back into Dean's room, he thought he caught a glimpse of a tan trenchcoat disappearing around the corner in his peripheral vision. And he wondered.

* * *

Cas didn't show up again until late that night. Dean was running a low fever and couldn't sleep well, so he was sort of awake when Cas walked in. In fact, he was staring listlessly at the door, trying valiantly not to think about what was missing from the arm that was now propped up on a little handmade pillow, also courtesy of Soldiers' Angels, and on Alec, which Jess had tucked under Dean's elbow while Sam wasn't looking.

Dean liked Jess. She looked too much like Mom at some angles, but she wasn't just any girl. She was _Sam's_ girl, his _wife_, and that made her Dean's _sister_. And that was awesome. He'd always kind of wanted a sister.

But anyway, here was Cas, sitting down gingerly on the edge of Dean's bed and looking miserable. And that was odd.

"Hey, Cas. Where ya been?"

"I had... other matters to attend to," Cas replied. "I wished to ensure that you and your family would be safe until you are returned to America."

"And are we?"

"Yes." Cas sighed heavily and looked at Dean's arm for a moment before meeting Dean's eyes again. "I am sorry, Dean. I never intended for you to be attacked again. I should not have allowed the demon to get so close."

Dean blinked and frowned. "Are you a hunter, Cas?"

Cas tilted his head and looked confused. "No. As I told you before, I am an angel of the Lord."

Dean snorted. "No such thing."

"You believe that because we were unable to save your mother."

"Damn ri—" Dean stopped in mid-word as the implications hit him. "You... you mean you _tried_?"

Cas nodded sadly. "Azazel had placed Enochian wards on your house to prevent us from entering. The most I could do was to shield you and Sam as you ran to the Impala."

"Azazel?"

"The demon that killed your mother and gave orders for Jessica to be killed. I believe his intent was to force Sam back into hunting."

Maybe it was the fentanyl, but Dean's brain steadfastly refused to process what he'd just heard. Instead, he blinked stupidly at Cas for a moment before asking quietly, "Cas... can you fix me?"

"No." Somehow Cas looked even more miserable when he said that. "I am here... undercover, as you might say. Restoring you to full health would attract too much attention." He pondered Dean's arm for a moment and brightened a little. "However, I can do this much."

Dean wasn't sure what to expect when Cas' hand curled gently around his arm above the cast, but a wave of cool relief washed over him immediately.

"Rest now, Dean. I will keep watch."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean murmured as he let sleep take him.

* * *

Dean's fever had broken sometime during the night, the doctor told Sam and Jess on Thursday morning, so the plan to send him to BAMC on Friday was a definite go. Sam spent as much time as possible with Dean that morning, but the afternoon was a whirlwind of phone calls and emails to arrange everything that Sam and Jess would need while Dean was in the hospital and some that Dean would need once he got out.

One of the most important necessities, and one that Jess insisted on tackling herself while Sam emailed professors to confirm that they were taking incompletes, was securing an apartment; she found a nice, ground-floor, wheelchair-accessible flat close to UTSA and the major medical centers, and though it was further from BAMC than Sam had hoped, he and Bobby agreed that Jess would be better off driving shorter distances in the heavily-warded Impala while Sam took her car to visit Dean. Her parents were not best pleased when she informed them that she'd be taking time off from Stanford, but the UT Health Science Center made an acceptable second choice, and when she mentioned that the rent on the apartment she'd found was less than half what their place in Palo Alto cost, they happily agreed to get the couple's belongings moved and to help out with the rent until she and the boys were able to find jobs. Bobby promised to have a trustworthy hunter friend collect Jess' car from LA, and Sam reserved a rental car and a room at the Fisher House for the interim.

Then he had to warn the doctor to make sure Dean was heavily sedated for the flight back to the States, which caused him to wonder how Dean had managed the flight to Iraq in the first place.

"Didn't," Dean confessed groggily when they stopped in to see him that evening. "Hitched a ride with the Navy. Hate ships now, by the way."

Sam snorted. "You and BA Baracus, man, I swear."

"Hey! I'm totally Faceman!"

"Whatever, jerk."

Dean's answering mumble wasn't quite intelligible, but Sam knew what he'd said anyway and grinned.

It was well after midnight when the frenzy of transatlantic communication ceased and Jess fell exhaustedly into bed, but as he turned out the light, Sam thought he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows outside their window—not looking in, but looking away as if on guard. It was odd, but he supposed the Air Force might have sent someone to make sure they weren't attacked again, and he was too tired to think about it further. As it was, he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Morning came all too early, announced by Ash calling both to wake them in time to catch their flight out of Frankfurt and to report that he had nothing to report. "I don't know how he did it," he drawled, "but it looks like _su padre_ managed to block all outside access to his phone. Bobby can't even get his voicemail, says it's out of service, but he's paid up through December on Burt Aframian's dime. And I can't get it on GPS, even through the NSA satellite, which probably means it's off."

"You hacked the NSA?" Sam said incredulously.

"Not long enough for 'em to notice," Ash replied casually.

Sam decided he really didn't want to know and sighed. "Okay, well, thanks, Ash. We'll call you or Bobby when we get into Houston."

"And we'll keep lookin'," Ash promised.

"You sure we ought to drive from Houston to San Antonio?" Jess asked sleepily, even though the tickets were already purchased.

"Cheaper and faster than layovers from DFW," Sam shrugged. "And I-10's not a bad drive as long as we make it out of Houston before rush hour."

"I don't even want to know how you know that," said Jess and headed for the shower.

Coffee and showers woke them both sufficiently to enjoy the train ride from Ramstein to Frankfurt, which made the trip feel almost like a honeymoon, but the wait at the airport was long enough for the exhaustion to creep up on them again. So although Sam caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man in a trenchcoat backing out of their row while they were boarding the plane, he wasn't able to let the oddness of it do more than register, and he and Jess were sound asleep in each other's arms not five minutes after takeoff.

It wasn't until they woke on landing at Heathrow for their layover that Sam realized that, despite knowing there was a demon apparently putting out hits on Dean and Jess, he'd felt safer in the last twenty-four hours than he'd ever felt anywhere but Bobby's house and Pastor Jim's church.

* * *

.

* * *

Notes:  
- As far as I'm aware, the exact details I've given regarding the attack that should have killed Dean are fictional. The tactic used is not and did in fact result in numerous casualties over the course of Operation Iraqi Freedom. However, the 2nd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, really was deployed to Iraq as part of the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit from October to December of 2005, and their stateside base is Camp Pendleton.  
- Apparently you can just walk into a county clerk's office in California and get married right away, at least in Orange County. (Germans may not have a problem with an unmarried couple sharing a hotel room, but I wouldn't expect Sam to know that.)  
- All commercial flight routes mentioned are the result of hurried searches on Orbitz.  
- Alec is a nod to vegakrist's fabulous AU "The Wellspring." But the Soldiers' Angels First Responder Backpacks really do have a stuffed animal and a quilt in them, among other necessities.  
- I'm not sure why I got it into my head that Sam's visions started in mid-summer. But this is AU, so I'm sticking to it.  
- The day-date references made in the pilot correspond to 2003, not 2005. I didn't catch that until I had over half of the story up at hoodie_time.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's status was switched from inpatient to outpatient on Thanksgiving morning.

Sam and Jess had gotten enough of a heads-up that by the time Sam left the apartment to collect Dean, Jess was well into the process of cooking her first solo Thanksgiving dinner—and Sam decided to stop at Shipley Do-nuts on the way to BAMC rather than disrupt her just for breakfast. He bought Dean a half-dozen plain glazed and a dozen doughnut holes for himself. Dean devoured his doughnuts in record time before the doctor could spot them and tell him not to.

It had been a long three weeks, and tempers had flared more than once (though never to the point of Sam or Jess seriously considering going back to California). When they weren't miscommunicating with each other, they'd had to fight well-meaning friends, potential employers, unsympathetic profs, and uncooperative apartment managers. Dad was still missing, and the Moores, while supportive, had chosen not to visit Dean in the hospital when they came down to help Sam and Jess unpack. So far Dean's only visitors, apart from Soldiers' Angels volunteers, had been Bobby, Pastor Jim, and Caleb—and Cas, Dean insisted, though Sam had never seen him.

But there'd been no sign of demons in the area, and BAMC was a good hospital, and Dean's progress had been nothing short of miraculous. He had needed multiple surgeries to repair his injuries and would still need several more, but the skin grafts had healed without scarring; the neuralgia had vanished overnight; infections never lasted more than a day; the broken bones were knitting with remarkable speed; and the post-concussive symptoms were improving markedly every day. "God's got His hand on your brother," one doctor told Sam several times during Dean's hospital stay.

And Sam hoped it was true. He and Jess had actually found a church they liked in Castle Hills and started attending on Sunday mornings, and Sam had committed himself to praying for Dean every day. If Cas really was an angel, as Dean said he seemed to be, maybe there was hope for Dean's soul—and Sam's—yet.

More earthly ministers of grace had come through for them as well. Only a day or two after Dean's arrival, Soldiers' Angels had presented him with a voice-activated laptop, part of a new program called Project Valour-IT, and Sam had gotten him set up on Skype. Dean was thus able to keep in touch with his Marine buddies in Iraq, which improved his morale no end, but he also managed to make contact with Ash, who kept him up to date on the latest news from the hunting world. BAMC's wi-fi network blocked most of Dean's favorite porn sites, but it didn't block certain blog sites, and after some coaching from Sam and Ash, Dean discovered that blogging was as useful an outlet as pen-and-paper journaling had been. He'd ended up with two blogs, one for his service-related thoughts and another (a friends-locked LiveJournal) for personal and hunting entries; the "milblog" brought him into contact with a host of other service members and their spouses, including some other wounded warriors, which in Sam's opinion was better than psychotherapy.

It didn't completely stave off the boredom, though, and Dean had begun seriously thinking about starting some online courses through the University of the Incarnate Word that spring just to have something to do. Sam was surprised, but Dean had noted, "Criminal justice classes might actually be useful for hunting. Dunno how I'll hold a shotgun with this," he'd held up his left arm, "but God knows I can't stay in the Corps forever. Especially after... Brady."

He had a point there.

It was 10:00 when Sam got Dean, his belongings, and his wheelchair out to the Impala, but Jess had explicitly told him not to come back before noon, so after allowing Dean a few moments of eyeroll-inducing reunion with his car (seriously, you'd think it was a girl, the way he carried on), Sam took Dean on a leisurely drive through the city, pointing out their church, the law office where Sam would be starting as a paralegal in December, the clinic where Jess had just gotten a job in medical records, the UTSA and UTHSC campuses, Fiesta Texas, Sea World, and a few of the places on the northwest side where they'd hung out the one time John had found a werewolf in Helotes. Dean insisted on stopping by the Alamo Café to pick up some fresh tortillas to munch on as they drove, since that had been his favorite restaurant in the area when they were kids, and both of them agreed that the quality hadn't declined over the years.

"We should take Jess on some day trips," Dean declared as they pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. "Y'know, New Braunfels, Fredericksburg, Sonora Caverns..."

Sam laughed. "Sure, Dean. Just as soon as you're walking."

"I can walk!" Dean objected. "I just haven't gotten the hang of using only one crutch."

Sam just gave him a knowing look, parked, and got him his wheelchair.

Word of Dean's release from the hospital had apparently spread quickly; a bunch of the neighbors came out on their landings and balconies or threw open windows to whistle and cheer as Sam helped Dean out of the car and wheeled him into the apartment, with flags waving and not a few shouts of "Welcome home," "Good job, Marine," and "Semper Fi!" thrown in for good measure. Sam could tell from the way Dean ducked his head that he was embarrassed, but he recovered quickly, waving cheerfully and blowing kisses to all the pretty girls. Sam gave a couple of waves of his own, just to thank everyone.

"I dunno if I can get used to this," Dean confessed quietly as Sam deposited his stuff in the living room, which was admittedly much nicer than any place they'd lived as kids.

Sam shrugged. "Sure you can. Give it some time."

Then Sam wheeled Dean into the dining room, and Dean gaped at the feast spread before them—a small turkey, giblet gravy, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, fruit salad, sweet potatoes, dinner rolls, and not one, not two, but _three_ pies (apple, pumpkin, and pecan). And all of it was served up on china that their Stanford friends had ordered for them as a belated wedding present.

"I'm sorry it's not much," Jess said, twisting her apron in her hands nervously. "I mean, you're a hero; you deserve more..."

"_Jess_," Dean interrupted. "This is _awesome_. I... I haven't had a Thanksgiving this nice since I was three."

Sam wasn't sure who of the three of them was closest to tears at that point. He had certainly never considered that Dean might not have been as content with cold KFC and a passed-out-drunk Dad as he had always claimed to be, and that made him feel guilty for the times he'd run off to friends' houses for Thanksgiving dinner without inviting Dean or even informing him of where he was going. But by gum, he and Jess were going to make up for it this year. And the same went for Christmas.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, Sammy, you just gonna stand there and let the food get cold?"

"It's _Sam_," Sam shot back and pushed the wheelchair up to the table.

But though Dean snarked at Sam for filling his plate and cutting his slice of turkey for him, he savored every bite in a way Sam hadn't see him enjoy food in years. He even took his time with each of the three slices of pie he had for dessert, which he would normally have gone through in less than two minutes. And somehow Sam knew Dean wasn't just eating that way to please Jess.

The excitement of the morning took its toll, though, and Dean was visibly drooping by the end of the meal. Jess declared that the dishes could wait and collected Dean's quilt and teddy bear from his backpack while Sam got him turned around and back to the living room, then led the brothers into Dean's bedroom and put the quilt on the bed while Sam helped Dean out of the wheelchair. Dean drew the line at letting either of them tuck him in, however.

Once Dean got himself situated, Jess brushed a kiss on his cheek. "Rest well, Dean."

"You're gonna make an awesome nurse, Jess," Dean replied, not for the first time. "Thanks."

"So," said Sam as Jess left, "was that worth getting blown up for?"

Dean chuckled. "G'night, Sammy. Don't eat all the pie before I wake up."

Sam huffed. "Like I'll be able to eat anything else today."

Dean chuckled again, and Sam patted his shoulder and went to help Jess with the dishes.

* * *

Bobby stopped by again shortly after Thanksgiving to talk with Dean about possible modifications that would allow him to drive the Impala without his left hand. He also brought all three of the Winchesters an early Christmas present: protection and anti-possession amulets.

"The way I figure it," Bobby explained, "we've warded this place well enough that the only ways a demon could get to Jess or Dean would be to attack one of you outside or to possess one of you. The area's been too quiet lately, and I'm worried about you kids. So: amulets."

Dean pondered his for a moment while Bobby went off to look at the Impala once more, and Sam wondered if he was planning to put them on the same leather cord with the brass amulet Sam had given him for Christmas in '91. But when he said, "I've got an idea," instead of pulling off the necklace he'd finally begun wearing again, he reached across and pulled up the left side of his shirt.

And suddenly Sam understood why Dean wouldn't let Sam or Jess help him bathe.

Jess frowned at the tattoo Dean was showing them above his left hip. "Are those your dog tags?"

Dean nodded. "They're called meat tags. Everybody gets them before we're deployed, in case... well, in case we don't come back in one piece."

Jess turned a little green at that. There was a reason she planned to be a pediatric nurse at a clinic rather than working in a hospital ER.

"Anyway," Dean continued, lowering his shirt again, "my point is, chains come off. If we want to be sure we can't be possessed..."

"We should get this as a tattoo," Sam concluded, holding up the starburst-pentagram pendant. "With extra iron in the pigment to be safe."

Dean pointed at him. "Exactly."

"We should clear that with your doctor first," Jess noted.

Dean shrugged.

"You okay with getting one yourself?" Sam asked her.

Jess looked hesitant but replied, "Dean does have a point. And if a demon could get to Brady..." She didn't have to finish the thought.

"As soon as Dr. Salazar approves, then," Sam agreed.

* * *

Dean had apparently taken to using his casts as a little black book, Sam discovered one evening in mid-December when Dean was sacked out in front of the TV. So, since his primary had promised to have the casts off in time for Christmas, Sam decided to be an awesome little brother and copy down all the contact information Dean had accumulated, just in case.

That was how he discovered the line of sigils that had been engraved down either side of each cast and the other line of sigils that had been written on the back of the arm cast between the phone numbers of a couple of nurses.

He didn't recognize any of the sigils, so he carefully copied them onto a separate sheet of paper. Bobby, he knew, was in Ohio investigating a Bloody Mary sighting, so he scanned the copy and emailed it to Ash.

_Enochian_, Ash wrote back a couple of hours later, _supposed to be the language of the angels. Engravings look like wards, written looks like a chant to summon an angel called Castiel (Angel of Thursday)._ He'd transliterated and translated each one.

Sam emailed his thanks, closed his laptop, and sat back to ponder this news, but he hadn't gotten very far when Jess kissed his ear and sat down on the arm of his chair. "You're looking thoughtful," she said. "What's going on?"

"Oh, Cas apparently left Dean a message on his cast."

Jess hummed thoughtfully. "Y'know, I've been thinking about Cas. I know he's been avoiding us, but he's been an awfully good friend to Dean, angel or not. Maybe we should invite him over for Christmas dinner."

"Guess it can't hurt," Sam shrugged. "I'll try to get hold of him."

So, while Jess took Dean Christmas shopping that Saturday, Sam made sure he had the usual weapons handy—holy water, salt, iron, silver—and shut off anything that could be harmed by EMF, then read aloud the words that were written on the back of Dean's arm cast. There was a noise like giant wings flapping, and a male figure in a black suit and tan trenchcoat appeared in the middle of the living room, looking slightly puzzled.

Sam suddenly remembered Dean's half-coherent description of 'Cas' from Landstuhl—_black hair, blue eyes, trenchcoat._ It fit. "Castiel?"

"Sam Winchester," the man—no, the angel; it hadn't denied the name—replied, sounding as puzzled as he looked. "I did not expect... Dean isn't here. Why have you summoned me?"

"Uh, I, um... my-my wife and I wondered if maybe you'd like to come over for Christmas?" Sam cringed inwardly and hoped that didn't sound as lame to Castiel as it had sounded to him once he said it.

Castiel looked even more confused and studied Sam's face earnestly for a moment. Then his expression lightened somewhat, and he nodded. "I cannot stay long. But I would be glad to join you, yes."

"Great! Ah, we... we'd be honored. Dean's told us a lot about you."

Sam held out his hand, and Castiel looked at it for a moment before taking it in both of his own and meeting Sam's eyes once more with the barest hint of a fond smile. "Thank you, Sam. I shall come at noon."

And then he was gone, and Sam sat down hard on the couch and tried to recover from the fact that he'd just invited an honest-to-goodness angel to eat Christmas dinner with them.

* * *

"Do angels even eat?" was Dean's first question.

Sam shrugged. "The ones who visited Abraham did, supposedly."

"Huh. Maybe it's a social thing."

"That's what Milton thought," Jess agreed.

Though he was a little put out with Sam for snooping, Dean was secretly glad that Sam had invited Cas. One reason, of course, was that Sam and Jess were awesome and needed to meet Cas because Cas was also awesome. But another was that Christmas, like Thanksgiving, was one of those Things Winchesters Don't Have™, and Dean had been kind of worried about what sorts of celebrations Jess was used to. Dad was _still_ missing, and the Moores claimed they couldn't get away (Dean wasn't sure he believed that one), but if Cas was coming to dinner, that probably meant Sam and Jess wouldn't be planning a big party with people Dean didn't know and too many chances to be awkward with a limp and bad balance and no left hand. Carmen the PT nurse had invited him to a party on the Friday night before Christmas, and he was supposed to have some kind of video chat with Echo Company on Christmas Eve; that would be social time enough for one season. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed just hanging out at home with his little brother.

Besides, much as he hated to admit it, he still wasn't hitting on all eight cylinders. Cas had helped him a lot, probably pushing the limits of what he could get away with while remaining undercover, but Dean was nowhere near well yet. His concentration and short-term memory were shot thanks to the post-concussive syndrome, and "shop till you drop" apparently took all of four hours even when he was in a wheelchair. There were some problems even a Winchester couldn't hide or brazen through, and it was best not to be around other people much until they passed.

And really, he kind of hoped Sam or Jess could get Cas to explain some things, like exactly what he meant by "undercover."

His stomach growled just then, interrupting his musings. "Speaking of food..."

Jess blinked. "But we just ate."

Sam laughed. "Dean's always hungry."

"Dude, I'm regrowing bone here," Dean objected. "I think I have a right to be hungry."

Sam just shook his head and got Dean a sandwich.

* * *

Christmas morning found Dean picking listlessly at the empty cuff of his flannel shirt and trying to decide if Carmen was worth a second date. She seemed to have a thing for picking shrapnel out of his face, and he wasn't sure quite how he felt about that (though he'd never minded when his sister did it). And while Carmen had a lot in common with both Cassie and Lisa, he hadn't appreciated the fact that some of her friends seemed to forget that he was a Marine, not a "young professional" like the rest of them. Still, it might be worth trying again... after New Year's. Unfortunately, he'd been right about how badly the party and the video chat would wear him out.

—Hadn't he been a rotten patient once upon a time? Maybe that explosion knocked some sense into him even as it knocked a few other screws loose.

Dean shook himself then, setting aside old nagging questions about whether Lisa would have reacted the way Cassie had if he'd stuck around long enough to tell her the truth and whether he'd ever be able to deserve to have someone look at him the way Jess looked at Sam. Jess had been working her magic in the kitchen all morning and filling the apartment with _amazing_ smells, and now she was calling him and Sam to help with the one thing he could do one-handed: setting the table. Sam would have to handle the dishes, since none of them wanted to risk Dean losing his balance or something and dropping those china plates, but Dean could at least handle the napkins and silverware and hot pads.

Sam, goofy kid that he was, kept alternating between being happier than Dean had ever seen him on Christmas day and being insanely nervous about having Cas over, no matter how many times Dean assured him that Cas was pretty okay for a nerdy little dude with wings. Jess just acted like she was trying out for "hostess with the mostest" and was less nervous about the fact that Cas was an angel than she was about having _anyone_ over who wasn't family. Dean couldn't help being amused by it all.

Precisely at noon, there was a knock at the front door, and Sam nearly tripped over his own feet running to answer it. But Cas was actually _smiling_ as he said hello and stepped easily across the salt and iron lining the threshold.

"Hey, Cas," Dean called from his seat at the table. "Since when do you use doors?"

"I thought it both prudent and polite," Cas replied. "I did not wish to startle Jessica."

Dean grinned. Cas didn't have much in the way of social skills, but he was learning—Dean had cussed him out more than once for turning up in his hospital room unannounced.

"Can I take your coat?" Sam asked awkwardly.

The question seemed to startle Cas, and Dean suddenly realized that he'd never seen the guy without that stupid Columbo coat of his. Cas looked at Dean, who nodded, before turning back to Sam. "Yes. Thank you, Sam."

Sam had to help him out of it, though, and Dean wasn't sure he succeeded in not laughing.

"So, Cas, _do_ angels eat?" Dean asked as Sam ushered Cas into the dining room.

"Not out of necessity," Cas replied. "Most do not eat at all. However, I have learned to enjoy food when it is shared with humans whose company I care for. It is a way of experiencing Our Father's creation that I had not expected to find so agreeable."

That threw Sam, but Jess said shyly, "Well, I hope you find my cooking meets your standards."

"I am sure it will," Cas returned with a gentle smile.

In Dean's opinion, Jess had outdone herself, and he said so—repeatedly. Not only did she fix everything she'd served for Thanksgiving, but she'd gotten a few recipes from the neighbors and added a cranberry relish, hominy, and some fruit thing called ambrosia to the lineup. She outdid herself conversation-wise, too; Sam was too awe-struck to make small talk with Cas and Dean was too busy stuffing himself senseless, but Jess managed to keep the meal from being completely silent.

It wasn't until they'd finished eating and adjourned to the living room that Cas confessed, "I have enjoyed this very much. I'm... surprised. Before Dean's injury, my last encounter with this family was... less than pleasant."

Dean and Sam frowned at each other. "Last encounter?" they chorused.

Cas looked from one brother to the other. "It was... not in this timeline. And when I parted from you, you were not friends with one another."

"Whoa, slow down," said Dean. "You can _time travel_?"

"Yes. Time for us is fluid; it can be bent, though doing so is not easy."

"So is that what you meant when you said you were here undercover? You came back in time to—what, to _change_ something?"

"I was sent back to ensure that Sam did not embark on a dark and deadly path that would bring about the end of the world."

"_What?_" all three humans exploded.

Cas looked sadly at Sam. "I'm sorry, Sam. In that timeline, the demon possessing your friend Brady succeeded in killing Jessica on November 2. You survived, but with neither your father nor your brother to guide you, grief and vengeance drove you not only to resume hunting but to become ruthless and lose your moral compass, and you were open to corruption by the very forces you sought to destroy."

"Why?" Sam's frown deeped. "I mean, why was I alone? Did Dean die in that attack?"

"No. Dean survived uninjured. Two members of his platoon were killed instead. Dean remained on active duty and finished his enlistment with a deployment to Okinawa, still with Echo 2/1. By the time he returned to Bobby to find his family again... it was too late. You had been murdered, and your father had sold his soul to bring you back to life. But you walked into Hell to rescue John. Somehow you both escaped, but not before you had accidentally begun the chain of events that would trigger the Apocalypse. I never learned what happened to John after that. Dean and I became friends, but I could not help him reconcile with you and stop the Apocalypse all at once, and the seals were broken so quickly that we barely had time to help Dean find you again before Lucifer was freed, never mind shaking off the influence of the demon who had claimed to want to help you. The two of you thus fell easily into the roles you were destined to play.

"But the final battle between Michael and Lucifer was neither as swift nor as decisive as we had always understood that it should have been. It raged for weeks, and untold thousands of humans died every day. And for reasons you need not know, we were powerless to aid Michael.

"Finally, Gabriel, whom we had long thought dead, returned and took me aside. 'This isn't the way it's supposed to work,' he said. 'You have to fix it, Castiel. Dean's taught you to think outside the box; you're the only one who can change history without causing a train wreck.'

"'But there were many turning points,' I said. 'Which one can I change?'

"'Try Iraq,' said he. 'Now _go_! And don't get caught!'

"So here I am," Cas finished simply, "trying not to get caught."

Dean leaned forward. "Cas, back at Landstuhl, you said something about Azazel. It was important, but I don't remember what it was."

Cas blinked. "I simply said that Azazel was the demon that killed your mother."

Sam inhaled sharply, but Dean ignored him. "There was something else, though. Something about killing Jess." Cas looked away, but Dean banged his hand on the arm of his chair, startling the angel. "_Dammit_, Cas, you've already changed the timeline, so don't tell me it'll mess with causality. _What did Azazel want?_"

Cas sighed. "To force Sam back into hunting."

"Why?" the brothers chorused.

When Cas balked again, Jess gently touched his arm. "Please, Castiel. We need to know if we're going to make it right."

Cas looked at her hand, then at her face, Sam's face, and Dean's face last of all. Then he sighed again... and told them everything.

* * *

.

* * *

Notes:  
- The "meat tag" concept is real. I learned that from my cousin the Marine.


	3. Chapter 3

It was mid-March when John finally gave in and went back to Lawrence to begin at the beginning and look for some clue he may have missed as to the identity of the demon that killed his wife; he knew the thing was active again, but he kept losing his leads and needed something more solid to go on. As usual, he hadn't told anyone where he was or who he wanted to see. But no sooner had he parked his truck someplace inconspicuous than his door was yanked open by an irate Missouri Mosely, who smacked him upside the head for good measure.

"John Winchester! What in the world do you think you're doing, hiding your fool self like this? You've got half the hunters in the Midwest out lookin' for you!"

John's eyes went wide. "What? Why?"

"_Dean_. Poor boy got himself blown up in Iraq, nearly died."

"Iraq?"

"Didn't he tell you he was joinin' the Marines?"

"No... yes, he threatened to, but I didn't... no wonder I could never find him..."

"They're in San Antonio, Dean and Sam and Sam's wife. You'd best get down there, John. The answers you're lookin' for ain't here. You want to find them, you start with your boys."

John nodded numbly. "Can... can you..."

"Call Bobby Singer. He'll tell you all about it and call off the bloodhounds."

"Okay. Thanks, Missouri."

"Don't thank me yet," Missouri shot back and slammed the door shut before stalking away.

John took a moment to steel himself before pulling out his cell phone to call Bobby. He was in the middle of scrolling through his phone book when something finally registered.

Sam's girl... he'd seen her a few times when he'd slipped down to Stanford to check on the one son he could still find. But Missouri had called her his _wife_.

Just how much had he missed in his sons' lives the last two years?

Tamping down the guilt, he found Bobby's number and pressed Call.

Bobby either had Caller ID or was psychic himself, because he didn't even wait for John to identify himself before yelling, "Where the _hell_ have you been, Winchester?"

John winced but replied, "Missed you, too, Bobby." After Bobby had yelled at him for another minute, he interrupted, "Yes, I'm an idiot and probably a damned fool. Now, what about my boys?"

After two sentences, John was glad he wasn't driving. After two minutes, he began to think he _had_ been a fool and might be damned to boot.

"They haven't told me what all they're up to," Bobby confessed as he wound down the story. "But they've got Ash trackin' kids whose mothers died in nursery fires in '83, got me and Jim Murphy keepin' an eye out for omens in places I ain't even heard of before. And they said _something_ to Daniel Elkins that's got him spooked like I never saw a sane hunter look."

John blinked. "Elkins? When the hell did you see Elkins?"

"Last month. Called me and Gordon Walker to help him take out a nest of vampires that was headed to Manning. Walker's got a burr under his saddle about Sam, by the way."

"Thanks for the heads-up. Never thought Walker was all there anyway."

"Wasn't till Walker left that Elkins told me he'd gotten the lead from your boys. Then he gave me a package, told me to guard it with my life until I could get it to Dean."

John's heart was already pounding, but now it sped up even more. "What was it?"

"He didn't say, I didn't look, and Dean didn't open it while I was there. But I can guess."

"The Colt."

"The Colt."

John exhaled slowly. He'd never told the boys about the Colt because he hadn't been sure it was real. Now somehow they not only knew about it but apparently knew what to say to Elkins to get him not only to admit he had it, which was more than he'd do for John, but to actually let go of the thing. And it seemed they had a purpose for it, too. "What the hell is goin' on, Bobby?"

"Hell if I know, John. Why don't you ask 'em yourself?"

John audibly sighed this time. "Yeah. I'll do that. Thanks, Bobby."

* * *

John fretted all the way to Tulsa, where he stopped for the night. He tossed and turned and barely got enough sleep to be safe driving the rest of the way to San Antonio. By the time he got to Fort Worth, he'd begun to wonder how much of Bobby's story was actually true.

The doubt was enough for him to stop in West for kolaches and coffee and a good hard look at what he was doing. Bobby wasn't likely to be possessed—not unless they were up against a demon that didn't play by the rules or was too powerful to be stopped by even Bobby's wards—but nobody was above being manipulated, and Bobby might just be willing to do some manipulating of his own if he had a good reason. Their last fight had been about Sam, after all, and about John's inability to find Dean.

Not that John hadn't tried. He'd tracked every fake ID he knew Dean to have and as many possible aliases from rock bands and movies as John could remember either boy having even remarked on. None of them had been used since Dean had stormed out of that motel room in Connecticut. But John had taught his sons how to disappear, and that included not using their real names or SSNs, so he hadn't searched for those. And he hadn't thought Dean actually _meant_ he was going to join the Marines. Every so often, another hunter would say Dean had been spotted in San Diego, but John was never able to trace him when he got there, and hanging around the places Dean had been seen never succeeded, either. Nor did keeping an eye on Sam, the only logical reason Dean might have for being in California so regularly—or so John had thought. Dean clearly wasn't hunting.

But every time John had nearly convinced himself to break into Sam's apartment and confront him, another hunt called him away, sometimes for months. And eventually John decided to let sleeping dogs lie, wherever they were. He missed Dean and worried about him, but if he'd reconnected with Sam, and especially if he'd gotten out of hunting and yet remained safe... well, they were good kids and grown men, capable of taking care of themselves. And he had a demon to kill.

Bobby's story did fill in some blanks, like why Sam hadn't been in Palo Alto when the omens kicked up. All "Agent Fogelberg" had managed to learn from the school was that Sam and his girl had taken off on Halloween morning pleading a family emergency and hadn't yet returned. But John didn't want to believe that he could have been so wrong... and really, he had only Bobby's word, indirectly backed by Missouri, for what happened.

Supposing it was a trap, then, or even just a well-meaning attempt to get John to reconnect with his sons even if it would put all three of them in danger. Did he turn around now and go back to digging for elusive leads elsewhere? Or did he go on to the Alamo City in the hope of at least catching a glimpse of his sons, which was more than he'd had for months?

Every so often, John's instincts as a father trumped his instincts as a hunter. Perhaps this was an occasion to let that happen.

When John pulled out of the parking lot of the Czech Stop, he got back on I-35... heading south.

By the time he got to New Braunfels, he had his plan of attack fully formulated. It wasn't hard to find the apartment complex where Bobby said the boys lived or to locate a good observation post across the street; the boys' place was gated, too, and a quick inspection showed that someone had run iron wire along the fence and under the gate track. That was encouraging. But the Impala wasn't in the parking lot, and it was mid-day, so John settled in to watch and wait.

He also called Ash to check Dean's record and was shocked at what he heard: Corporal, Echo 2/1, Expert Rifleman, Bronze Star twice over, Purple Heart. Two tours in Iraq, one in Fallujah, one in Karabilah. Couple of disciplinary actions for insubordination and exceeding orders, but Ash thought the latter sounded like Dean had taken out an ifrit that the insurgents had somehow been using in lieu of conventional explosives. John still wasn't sure whether he hoped it was true or not, but if it was... damn, he was proud of that boy.

The Impala showed up after he'd been there for a couple of hours. At least John thought it was the right Impala. Both boys were in the front seat, it looked like, but the car had Texas "Classic Auto" license plates and a disability placard, and the figure that looked like Sam was driving. John barely had time to adjust the zoom on his monocular to check their faces, though, before the gate opened and the car drove through, then disappeared behind one of the buildings. Ten minutes or so later, the car came back to the gate and drove away in another direction, but Sam—and from this angle, John was reasonably sure it _was_ Sam, despite the bureaucrat suit—was alone in the front seat.

John struggled for a moment over what to do next. Dean, or whoever or whatever looked like Dean, would probably be alone in the apartment, and if Bobby had told him the truth, that disability placard wasn't for show. Did he take a chance now, or did he wait for nightfall, when he could get past the security system and (presumably) catch both of his boys and Sam's girl all together?

He hated second-guessing himself.

Eventually he decided to wait until after dark and watched as first Sam's girl, then Sam, returned after 5:00. That implied that they'd been at work. Either they, whoever they were, were extremely good, or Bobby had been telling the truth.

By 7:15, it was fully dark, and the boys showed no sign of going out for supper. So John abandoned his post and went back to the truck to stow his monocular before going to the apartment.

But there were three young men with obvious attitudes waiting for him beside the truck, two Hispanic, one Caucasian. John wasn't an expert at reading tattoos, but the way they were dressed and the way they stood suggested that they were gang members.

"_Hola, señor_," said the Hispanic kid on the right, jerking his chin upward. "_¿Que pasa?_"

"Is there a problem?" John replied.

The white kid shrugged. "Probably not. We just want to know why you been starin' at that apartment complex all day." The cadence of his speech was odd, as if the Latino edge to his accent was practiced, deliberate, rather than the natural result of having bilingual friends.

"What's it to you?" John really, _really_ did not need to get crosswise with a gang right now, so he kept his tone as neutral as he could.

"Dean Winchester lives there."

John blinked. "You know him?"

The white kid laughed. "Dude, _everybody_ knows about Winchester. Guy gets blown up in Iraq and comes back with an angel on a leash, word gets around. They say he's only got one hand and still can't walk good, but _I_ ain't messin' with him."

"Angel? The blonde girl?"

They all looked at him like he was crazy. "Naw, man," said the second Hispanic guy. "That's his sister-in-law."

"_El ángel lleva una trinchera_," added the first one, gesturing with both hands to indicate wearing a long coat. "He wears the... the... _¿como se dice?_"

"Trenchcoat," supplied the white kid. "I've only seen him once, but he scared the hell out of me. Shot him in the face four times when he walked in on a deal, and he didn't even blink. Just said he wanted us to go straight and keep an eye on Winchester."

Well, any number of supernatural creatures could survive four headshots, especially if they were regular rounds rather than silver or consecrated iron, so the story didn't really tell John anything about what he was about to face. But it did explain the gang members' interest in him, and if they really thought they were under orders from an angel, there weren't many convincing lies he could tell that would get them to leave him alone.

"So," the white kid continued, "why you been starin' at Winchester's apartment all day, old man?"

John had two choices: risk being jumped by three street-hardened twenty-somethings at once, or tell the truth. But he really didn't need to attract police attention with a fight, even if he won. So he sighed resignedly. "He's my son."

The three gang members blinked and looked at each other. "So why don't you just go talk to him?" asked the one on the left.

"I'm going to, but... it's complicated."

That provoked a flurry of Spanish between the two Hispanic kids while the white kid gave John a long, searching once-over. John couldn't keep up with the conversation, but he did catch a word here and there, especially _brujo_. That was disconcerting.

After staring at John for about thirty seconds, though, the white kid cut the others off with a sharp "_¡Cállate!_" Then he nodded to John. "I think you'd better go see your son, Mr. Winchester. This is a pretty nice neighborhood, but no place is completely safe after dark."

John nodded back, and the three guys backed away from the truck. But they didn't leave, instead watching to make sure he actually drove across the street. That would be fine, except for the minor detail that John didn't have the code to the gate. Both Sam and his girl had used remotes, and John had been planning to find a less conspicuous way in anyway.

But Bobby had been there before, right? Bobby would know. So John called.

"Sam's got some memory tag," Bobby replied. "Uh... the year _Jane Eyre_ was published?"

"Oh, like I know that."

"Creation of the Walker Colt? I think that was Dean's."

"... That works. Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby grumbled something in reply and hung up.

Still feeling the gang members staring at him, John drove across the street, punched "1847" on the keypad, and felt slightly surprised when the gate actually opened. He waited until the gate was closing behind him to look back, but the kids had vanished—in a cloud of candy wrappers, which seemed... odd.

He got turned around in the parking lot a couple of times, but eventually he did find the Impala and parked next to it. As he walked toward the building, John couldn't shake the feeling of eyes following his every move. If it wasn't a trap, his boys must have good neighbors.

"The problem with the revolver," Dean was saying as John quietly approached the apartment, "is that it doesn't have a safety. Trigger gets hooked on somethin' in your purse, you're in trouble."

"But Sgt. Reyes said..." objected a woman's voice.

"Due respect to Sgt. Reyes, Sis, but me and Sam, we been doin' this a lot longer than he has."

"Dean's right, Jess," said Sam. "You'll be better off with the Glock. Easier to switch ammo, too."

So they were getting Sam's girl a handgun to carry concealed and making sure she had a license for it? And Dean was calling her _Sis_? This was feeling less and less like a trap all the time. No less awkward, however, and even as he neared the door, John couldn't figure out how to make his entrance.

Then he apparently tripped some kind of silent alarm, because the voices inside stopped, and John could barely hear the shuffle of the boys taking up defensive positions. He was bracing himself to knock when the door flew open, and John found himself with a very familiar Colt M1911 and an equally familiar Taurus PT-92 pointed at him.

"Boys," he said quietly.

"Dad?" they chorused, stunned.

"Hey. It's... it's good to see you again. Both of you. It's been a long time."

"Too long," whispered Sam, and suddenly John was being pulled across the threshold and into Sammy's arms. And when he let go, Dean pulled John into another rough hug—and John could feel that the pressure from the left arm ended short of where Dean's fist should be.

Bobby had told him the truth. John felt about two feet tall.

"Dad, where the _hell_ have you been?" Dean demanded as he released John. "Every hunter west of Cleveland's been on the lookout for you since the day I was injured."

John couldn't hold back the tears. "I'm so sorry, Dean. You... Sammy... I've been wrong about a lot of things. I thought... going after the demon alone, I thought you'd be out of the crossfire, wherever you were."

"And you couldn't touch base with Bobby or Ellen or _someone?_ Dammit, Dad—what if I'd _died_ out there? Hell, what if _you'd_ died? Do you have any idea..."

"That's _enough_, Dean. I've already been chewed out by Bobby and had my head slapped by Missouri to boot. I don't need to hear it from you, too."

Dean sighed. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, it's just... we've been so worried about you."

That just about killed John. Dean had lost a limb and spent his time worrying about John. _Oh, Mary, our boys..._

Sam cleared his throat then, and how had John failed to hear the girl come in from wherever she'd been hiding? But there she was, at Sam's side, and now he could see the simple gold bands on their left hands. Dammit, they should have had—but no, Mary's wedding ring hadn't survived the fire, and the engagement ring had gone for a rare book over a decade ago. A book he'd added to Bobby's library when the case was finished and hadn't looked at since.

The car, their guns, and their training... were those really the only heirlooms he was leaving his boys?

"Dad," Sam said, "this is my wife, Jess. We got married back at the end of October. Jess, my dad, John Winchester."

"Glad to meet you," she nodded, offering her hand. "Dean's right; we've been awfully worried."

"Jess." He'd known all along that she had a real name, but he'd been calling her _Sam's girl_ for so long that he almost didn't know what to do with _Jess_ and _wife_ and _Sis_ and _daughter-in-law_, never mind actually speaking to her, shaking hands with her.

He wasn't sure, but this whole thing just might be even more disorienting than finding out about Adam.

When he turned back to Dean, the boy had a cane in his hand—black and chrome, just like the Impala—and was limping wearily toward the black leather recliner, the adrenaline crash leaving him pale and drawn. "Sorry, Dad, I gotta sit down. PT today was pretty grueling."

"You look beat to hell," John replied. "I'm sorry if I made things worse."

Dean gestured vaguely with his stump, which probably meant he was waving it off.

"Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Winchester?" Jess asked.

John looked back at her and swallowed hard to force the lump out of his throat. "Yes, please, and call me John."

Jess nodded and ducked into the kitchen, and Sam offered John a seat in the other easy chair before settling onto the couch. Dean dropped stiffly into the recliner and propped his cane against the wheeled tray table that stood beside it.

"You mind if we eat in here tonight, Jess?" Dean called. "I dunno if I'll be able to get up again."

"That's fine," Jess called back.

Dean nodded once and flipped up the footrest, settling back into the chair with a sigh of relief.

Sam must have noticed John's concerned expression, because he said, "Believe it or not, Dad, Dean's doing a lot better. It's just taking a while to rebuild his stamina."

"Didn't take a nap today, either," Dean confessed. "Wanted to see if I could make it through a whole day without one."

"Dean."

"Shut up, Sam. I almost made it."

John cleared his throat and decided to attempt small talk. "That's a nice cane you've got there, son."

Dean smiled. "Thanks. Christmas present from the guys."

"Is it... does it have any... special features?"

Dean looked at him oddly. "Dad, how'm I gonna use a sword stick with one hand?"

John ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"Bobby's trying to find him a rifle cane, though," Sam offered. "If he can't, Caleb thinks maybe he can make one from the old Remington diagrams. Maybe give it an iron handle, too, so Dean can use it as a club against ghosts."

John nodded and rubbed at his left wrist as he tried to phrase his next question more carefully. "Are they planning... um..." Dammit, this was awkward.

"I've got a prosthetic," Dean shrugged. "I can't get used to it, though, can't make the fingers work right. Dr. Salazar thinks maybe it's because of the TBI. So I'm thinkin' if I can't get it pretty soon, maybe I'll ask for just a hook or somethin'—somethin' that'll let me pull up my pants and steady a shotgun, but not somethin' I have to try to maneuver much."

John nodded, then paused. "Shotgun. You're accepting the discharge? Coming back to hunting?"

"Yeah. I know a lot of guys would shrug this off, try to downplay the symptoms to get back to the unit, but I gotta be honest—I've still got a long way to go before they'd let me deploy again, and a desk job or even recruiting would drive me up the wall. And as important as the mission in Iraq is, our family's got a mission here that's even more important. _This_ is the unit I need to be with."

Jess came back before John could formulate a response to that. "The coffee will be ready in a few minutes," she said, sitting down beside Sam. "I'd just put chicken in the oven before you arrived, too—I was planning for three, but I think we can make it stretch."

"It's okay," Sam shrugged. "Dad can have mi—" He broke off in mid-word, then cried out in pain as his hands flew to his head and he buckled forward under what looked like a terrible migraine.

Jess and Dean were instantly alert, Jess gently rubbing a hand across Sam's back and watching him closely, Dean chanting something under his breath. And suddenly there was a... _not_ a man in a trenchcoat (_El ángel lleva una trinchera_, the kid outside had said, but everyone knew there was no such thing) standing in the middle of the living room.

"Hello, John," it said with an acknowledging nod before turning its attention to Sam.

The headache passed as swiftly as it had hit, and Sam collapsed against Jess, gasping for breath. Jess began gingerly massaging Sam's temples even as Sam locked eyes with the thing Dean had apparently summoned.

"Cas," Sam huffed.

"Sam?" Dean asked.

But the Cas-thing looked hard at Sam for a moment longer before releasing his gaze with a single nod and turning to Dean. "A spirit is threatening the new owners of your house in Lawrence," it reported. "If it is not Azazel himself, it may be some other kind of fire spirit. I will look into it."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean nodded, and the Cas-thing vanished.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned into Jess's touch, groaning as the pain apparently eased, and his breathing slowed.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out again. "See what I mean?" he asked John.

"What the..." John finally managed.

"Wait a sec, Dad. We'll explain when Cas gets back."

"What is Cas?"

"He's an angel. His name's Castiel, but... we're friends."

"Azazel?"

"Killed Mom."

Well, that was something to go on, at least, or something to come back to. "What's wrong with Sam?"

"Vision," Sam said thickly. "Think Azazel's tauntin' me, tryin' to draw me out. 'Snot gonna work, though. We got a plan."

"Plan? What—"

John's question was cut off by Castiel's return. "It was a poltergeist," it reported to Dean, "a particularly strong one. Your mother's spirit had also been trapped there. I have freed her and banished the poltergeist. She is at rest."

Dean sighed and gestured to the couch, and Castiel sat stiffly on the other side of Jess. "We gotta be careful, Cas," said Dean. "We let you handle too many more of these, Azazel's gonna get wise."

"Yes. I believe we should enact our plan within the next few days, now that your father has returned—the equinox should be ideal."

"I'm _right here_," John growled. "And I don't want you boys going after that demon, especially not with Dean in the condition he's in and with... whatever this is that's happening to Sam. Your mother's death almost killed me. I can't watch you die, too. I won't."

Castiel turned piercing, unblinking blue eyes to John. "If Dean had died in Karabilah, or if Jessica had died in Palo Alto, when would you have learned of it?"

John quailed but shot back, "That's beside the point."

"No, Dad," said Dean, "that is _exactly_ the point. With respect, you're here because you can't catch up to Azazel, and you can't catch up because you always want to do this alone. You go off without a word, don't let people help you, don't let anyone _talk_ to you. Hell, getting you on the phone—I've got a better chance of winning the lottery. But we're stronger together, and we have the information you need, plus a plan to end this once and for all in a way that won't get any of us killed. And all this, it's bigger than you know. If we act now and we do it right, then we won't just have avenged Mom. We'll have saved the world."

"Then tell me what I need to know and give me the damn Colt. But you are _not_ coming with me. That's an order."

Dean smirked. "You don't get to pull rank anymore, _Corporal_. Not with me."

John swallowed hard again and forced himself to return the smirk. "I've still got more time in grade."

Sam groaned into Jess's shoulder.

"_Enough_," Jess said sternly but quietly. "John, we're not children. At least listen to our plan before you dismiss it."

And that sounded so much like Mary that it took him a good fifteen seconds to respond, especially since he suddenly had music from _Fiddler on the Roof_ running through his head:

_When did she get to be a beauty?  
When did he get to be so tall?  
Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?_

"Okay," he choked out. "Okay, you're right. I'll listen."

Jess nodded and eased Sam back against the back of the couch. "The coffee should be ready by now. Would you like some, Sam?"

"Little," Sam mumbled. "Lots of cream. Don't think I can eat, though. Sorry."

Jess kissed his temple and looked over at Dean.

"Black," Dean said. "Same for Dad. Cas?"

"No, thank you," Castiel replied. "I believe my explanation would be more efficient than yours."

Dean snorted in amusement while Sam chuckled weakly, and John felt his eyebrows heading for his hairline. Jess just nodded and went into the kitchen.

"You're on, Cas," Dean declared.

Castiel turned those unsettling eyes back to John. "You would not have heard of this, John, but in October of 1972, the demon Azazel possessed the priest who served a tiny convent in Ilchester, Maryland..."

* * *

The moon had just begun to rise when John finished the last of the preparations for the summoning in the old abandoned warehouse in Schertz. This much he had insisted on doing himself; even Castiel had agreed that it would work best this way. John couldn't deny that he felt a bit nervous about his role in the plan, but the kids had timed their parts to the second and convinced Castiel to do... something that would give them extra protection even though he had to stay away, and they, at least, had a better-than-even chance of coming out of this alive. So he took a deep breath, let it out again, and began the ritual.

No sooner had he finished than an icy, sulfurous gust of wind threatened to blow out the candles he'd lit, and John looked up at a man who would have been thoroughly unremarkable were it not for his feral grin and yellow eyes.

"Howdy, John," he said. "This _is_ a surprise."

"Azazel," John returned. That was Jess's cue.

"I took you for a lot of things, but suicidally reckless isn't one of them."

"Reckless?"

"Conjuring a demon as powerful as me, out here alone, unarmed and unwarded? I'd say that's pretty reckless. Do you really think you can trap me, send me back to Hell?"

"No. I want to make a deal." That was Sammy's cue, and John fancied he heard the click of the last piece falling into place.

Azazel looked intrigued. "Do tell."

"The Colt for Dean's health."

The demon laughed. "You don't have the Colt, John. Trust me, I'd have heard if you did."

"I can get it, though. Loaded with all five remaining bullets. Just... let Dean go back to his unit. It's killing him to be stuck on the sidelines, depending on Sam and Jess for everything. He's a Marine."

"And there's no such thing as an ex-Marine." Azazel was sneering now. "The Corps looks after its own. Semper Fi."

John let his genuine guilt surface—_Semper Fidelis_ was the motto of the Corps, but when it came to his flesh-and-blood family, he hadn't been living up to it very well lately. "He's my _son_."

"Why, John, you're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loves them."

"It's a good deal. I know you care a lot more about that gun than you do about Dean."

"Don't be too sure. He and his little angel friend have interfered with my plans for Sammy. But you're right, he's not much of a threat."

"That's what you think," Dean replied, emerging from the shadows, Colt in hand.

Azazel turned to run, but he couldn't move—after his arrival, Jess had closed a salt circle around the outside of the building, and Sam had closed a cast-iron devil's trap that Castiel had helped them design and suspend from the warehouse's beams. But before the demon could vacate its host, Dean cocked the hammer of the gun that was said to kill anything and fired.

And with hellfire sparking inside his host's bones, Azazel fell and died.

John was barely aware of Dean walking up to him, of Sam and Jess joining them, of Castiel appearing in the doorway. For twenty-two years, they had waited for this day. Their war was over.

"So this means no Apocalypse, right, Cas?" Dean finally asked.

"I cannot guarantee that no one will attempt to break the seals," Castiel replied carefully. "There are still many children whom Azazel tainted with demon blood; Lilith's subordinates may yet attempt to influence them, though their potential powers will not manifest themselves if they are left alone. But you will at least have some time to recover and to relearn what it means to be a family."

"You stickin' around? I imagine Zach and Uriel won't be too happy with you, either."

"True. I must... go to ground, as you might say; I think I will attempt to find Gabriel again. But you may summon me when you please."

"You are always welcome in our home, Cas," Jess stated, and Sam nodded his agreement. "You don't have to wait for us to call."

"Just be sure you knock," Dean added with a wink.

Castiel actually smiled. "I will remember. Fare you well." And he was gone.

John ran a hand over his face. "Boys... Jess... I know I don't say this often enough, but I am so damn proud of you. And I know Mary would be, too."

Dean hugged him first, then Sam, and Jess last of all. He still couldn't quite believe that he'd survived, that he was still here to hold his daughter-in-law, maybe even—mercy!—see his grandkids someday.

"C'mon, Dad," Dean said gently. "Let's get out of here."

John nodded. The police were probably already en route, so they couldn't hang around much longer; they'd put the Kansas plates back on the Impala for the time being, but there was no way he'd jeopardize Dean's honorable discharge. Not even for this.

The Corps looks after its own.

"So what now?" Sam asked as they piled back into the Impala.

"I'm not sure," John confessed. "But I understand the Hill Country's lovely this time of year... think you kids can get off work tomorrow so we can go for a drive?"

Sam and Jess grinned at each other. "Sure, Dad," Jess replied, and John's heart skipped a beat. "I think we can arrange that."

John knew he'd go back to hunting, probably sooner than later. So would Dean, once he was well, and maybe Sam and Jess, too. But for now, with the Impala growling down the highway, Aerosmith on the radio, Dean in the front seat chattering away about the rumors of great fudge and awesome pie to be had in Fredericksburg, and Sam and Jess laughing at him from the back, John Winchester... was content.

* * *

.

* * *

Notes:  
- Yes, that was Gabriel. And I have distinct memories of white wannabe-gangsta guys, some of whom were probably actually in gangs, in my very nice, reasonably diverse San Antonio neighborhood in the early '90s who deliberately spoke with a Latino accent, presumably in order to sound more tough and cool. (I'm sure things are better now.)  
- The discussion about guns is based on an actual discussion my parents had recently.  
- I'm not planning to continue this 'verse, as I have several others yet to play in... but you never can tell with bees—or Winchesters!


End file.
